


vivid whiskey vision

by BlithelyandBlissfully



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Seizures, Smut, Synesthesia, Victuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 05:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9057028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlithelyandBlissfully/pseuds/BlithelyandBlissfully
Summary: Yuuri has synesthesia. It's not a problem, until it is. The seizure isn't great, but finally getting Victor naked and in bed is.---“Yuuri,” Viktor hums. “Tell me, what does my name taste like?”“Uh, uh, I- uh,” Yuuri stutters, waving his hands. “No-nothing!”Viktor leans in, crowding Yuuri, who can smell the delicate scent of Viktor’s shampoo. A soft breath of air touches his cheeks, and Yuuri knows his face must be turning a vibrant shade of red. He feels Viktor’s lips gently touch the shell of his ear as the Russian whispers, “you mean I taste like nothing to you? I’m hurt.”“W-well, no! I mean y-yes? I-I don’t know!”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Глаза цвета выдержанного виски](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9213227) by [NancyMuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NancyMuck/pseuds/NancyMuck)



> syn·es·the·sia  
> ˌsinəsˈTHēZHə/  
> noun  
> the production of a sense impression relating to one sense or part of the body by stimulation of another sense or part of the body.
> 
> Inspired by lit up, a suits fanfic by phreakycat on ffn.

When Victor says, “commemorative photo?” Yuuri watches as a ribbon of sound the color of sangria unfurls from the beautiful Russian’s mouth before it fades to a soft vermillion. It washes over Yuuri and sends a warm flush down his spine. He shivers, and the soft gasp of air that leaves him involuntary is a tremulous yellow, small and weak. The sensations from hearing his idol speak overwhelm him, force him to turn, to walk away from that tantalizing voice and alluring hue of red-purple.

His own voice is generally a gray-blue, hesitant and hopeful. When he is anxious, the color of his voice churns with anxious greens, desperate yellows. It causes him to think there is a Van Gogh painting erupting from his vocal cords, making his apprehension that much worse.

He tries not to let the colors dictate his decisions or reactions, and he’s usually pretty successful.

The colors have definitely distracted him during performances before, and he has missed a jump or two because an announcer’s hazardous orange anticipation exploded in his peripheral.

It isn’t all bad though. Despite the pain of being different, of having the complexity of synesthesia weighing on him, he would never call it a curse. It’s never been something he’s wanted to fix or eliminate. It adds an extra layer to him, something that allows him to see a depth to the world that most are blind to. The richness of what he sees drives him to learn and understand the heart of people, rather than what they show on the surface.

He’s grateful for it, for the colors he can find in sound.

“Are you paying attention, little piggy?” Victor’s voice, pompous purple, breaks him out of his musing. He snaps back with a jolt and realizes with sudden shock that he is about to run straight into a pole. He lets out a squeak, and narrowly misses crashing into it by vaulting over instead.

When he lands, he stumbles and almost falls. To catch himself, he has to rocket his hands in a flailing motion. Knowing he looks like an idiot, he can’t help the violent blush spreading on cheeks which he tries to cover by throwing his hands over his sweaty face. He feels completely embarrassed, as he usually does around his idol.

Victor breaks into a bellowing laugh, distracting Yuuri from his mortification and he looks up to see Victor leaning heavily on his bike for support. His blue eyes are sparkling merrily and he looks so absolutely gorgeous in the early morning light that it makes Yuuri blush harder than he thought possible.

That's not the only thing he sees though.

He has never wanted to tell someone about his synesthesia more than in this moment because Victor’s laugh is a hilarious shade of bright, sparkling lavender. It unfolds out of him in bubbles, iridescent and glittering. It matches him so perfectly that it's almost painful.

“Victor!” Yuuri whines instead, forcing himself to forget his observation, “come on! Don't laugh!”

“Sorry,” Victor responds cheerfully, waving his hand dismissively. “I just can't help myself.”

Yuuri grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “yeah, sure you can’t.”

Victor hums, a devious cherry red on floating from his lips, enough that it makes Yuuri nervous. “What was that, Yuuri? You want to run for thirty more minutes? Why didn't you says so?” He hops back onto the bike and looks expectantly at Yuuri.

Yuuri stutters apologies pitifully, but Victor’s fixed smile doesn't budge. The sweating brunette groans, but can't prevent the slight curling of his mouth as he begins to pick his pace up again.

\-----

Watching Victor in interviews is incomparable to Victor in the flesh. All the muted colors visible through the television screen did not do him justice.

To have Victor stand in front of him with those arrays of amethyst and ruby hues directed at him is overwhelming and Yuuri sometimes finds himself flabbergasted. Victor is made of glittering things, of sharp looks and a voice that could cut. Victor is polished where Yuuri is dull, weak.

What about Yuuri could have possibly inspired Victor enough to travel thousands of miles just to coach him?

Yuuri has no idea, but he will spend every minute he can with Victor until he finds out.

So Yuuri pushes himself and let's himself be pushed. He spends hours off the ice, forcing his body to return to skating form. He sweats and bleeds for Victor’s time, because proving that he is worth something is worth everything.

\-----

When Yurio shows up and forces his way into the lives of those in Hatsetsu, Yuuri is shocked by the interesting colors in the younger boy’s cadence.

He first noticed when Yurio was trying to insult his taste in food. Yurio might not have the best manners, but he would never say an unkind word in front of one of Yuuri’s parents. Yuuri, however, was fair game and typically allowed the young Russian’s angry tirades. It was a shame no one could insult his mother’s cooking and actually believe their words.

_Yuuri’s breath rushes out of him in small gasps. Sweat drips down the sides of his face, pooling beneath his head where he still lays on the incline bench. His shirt clings to him uncomfortably, and his muscles ache. He’s on his second break in the past thirty minutes and Yuuri is beginning to feel the stress on his body compounding._

_He hears Yurio scoff next to him, where the blonde continues to do sit-ups without pause. Yurio’s form hasn’t slowed throughout, and the boy continues to push himself. He only stops to take quick gulps of water from a bottle perched next to him, but that is rare._

_Yuuri moves to grab his own water bottle, but realizes he will have to sit up to reach it. He begins to move, and the metal creaks with his effort, sounding exactly as he feels. Yuuri listens to Yurio scoff again, and wishes he would just spit out whatever he wanted to say._

_Yuuri refuses to look over and acknowledge the rude boy, though. He purses his lips and forces his body to lift. He finally grabs his water bottle and moves to take a sip._

_“All that extra work to keep off your pig gut isn’t worth it,” Yurio finally huffs out between breaths, breaking the silence. “Pork cutlet bowls aren’t that good.”_

_He almost spits out his water, and is only saved by his quick reflexes. He throws his hand over his mouth, looking panicked. He makes a distressed noise, and gurgles a little._

_“Ahg!” Yurio cries, standing quickly. “You’re disgusting,” he blanches, looking disturbed._

_After forcing himself to finally swallow, Yuuri coughs violently into his fist for a solid minute. He is only interrupted by the heavy smack of Yurio’s palm as he tries to help Yuuri clear his airways. It’s the angriest help Yuuri has ever received._

_“B-but pork cutlet bowls-!” Yuuri stutters when he can finally speak._

_Yurio rolls his eyes, looking annoyed, “ugh, pig, not everyone loves them.”_

_Normally, Yuuri would ignore Yurio’s outrageous orange voice, but now he notices with interest as a thread of green intertwines with Yurio’s normal color. He notices how the boy looks, how he seems less angry and more patiently chiding. His head is tilted slightly and there is still a flush to his cheeks from the exercise. His hair clings to his skin, looking greasy in the dull light of the exercise room, and he looks more his age than usual. Yuuri can’t help the swell of affection he feels for the angry Russian, and he knows now that there is more to Yurio than meets the eye. His voice is only more proof._

_“What?” Yuuri says, amused. He turns his face to Yurio, who is wiping the sweat from his brow with a clean, white towel. “You love my mom’s pork cutlet bowls!”_

_“Pft, as if, stupid,” the blonde hisses. He flips his hair out of his eyes and glares. He really only looks lively when he’s angry. It’s almost ridiculous. “It has nothing on my country’s food.”_

_Yuuri watches the bright green spurts, and can’t help the bout of laughter that bursts from his lips at the false declaration. “Sure, Yurio,” he says, and listens to Yurio sputter with rage at the nickname. The laugh Yuuri stutters out in response sounds more nervous than he actually feels. He takes a swig of water to occupy his mouth and ignores Yurio’s protests that he “shouldn’t drink water if he doesn’t actually know how, idiot”._

_Surprisingly enough, he thinks he is beginning to understand the boy._

_He is reminded strongly of their first meeting, when Yurio was so furious with him that the rage  
oscillated in violent waves of russet fire and intermingled with passionate sandstone tones. He wonders if everything Yurio does is to push others to be their best, or if it just for Yuuri._

_Either way, he is glad to have met Yurio._

_“Hey, Yurio,” he says, “why don’t we take a break and grab some food? You’ll love it.”_

_“I doubt it,” Yurio scoffs in reply. “And stop calling me that stupid name!”_

Yurio looked annoyed during the whole lunch and insulted the staff twice, but he didn’t seem to hate the experience. He ate without complaint and walked beside Yuuri on their way back to the inn, occasionally offering a barb on Yuuri’s intelligence when he felt Yuuri had said or done something particularly stupid, like try to explain monuments or present some childhood memory in relation to where they were.

Yuuri recalls that time fondly as the moment he realized that Yurio had a soft side that wasn’t reserved just for felines.

Every insult and declaration of hate is peppered with sour lime stripes. It's both endearing and absolutely appalling.

Endearing because the green in his voice means he is lying. Endearing because that means Yurio is fond of him, of Hatsetsu and everyone in it. He’s the angriest fifteen year old Yuuri has ever met. He gripes and bitches and throws insults like they're going out of style, but he is also kind in his own harsh way.

Appalling because he’d be a lot better on the ice if he would stop pretending to be an asshole.

That will never happen though, so Yuuri cherishes the bright green intermingling with threats. He watches the gentle rise of pastel yellow beneath the vibrant orange. He smiles soft when he needs to, pushes Yurio to be better when the boy begins to lose motivation that isn't fueled by anger.

He knows Yurio enjoys skating. He knows Yurio isn't just competing to be ruthless or aggressive. Yurio is competing because he loves to skate, because the accomplishment of learning is greater than his combative nature.

Yurio only needs to learn that winning doesn’t make you a failure. After that, it will only be a matter of time before Yurio blows all the competition away without even trying.

Until then, Yuuri will admire the lime green spurts in the punk’s spicy orange voice and feel fond.

\-----

Yuuri realized he couldn’t tell anyone he was different when he was nine. He’d never thought of his ability as abnormal. He’d seen voices as color since he was four and couldn’t really remember what he’d been like without the synesthesia.

His views of the world were shaped by shades. His opinions on people revolved around the colors he saw. He tended to react in conversation to strange patterns in color more than actual content. He had even come to associate certain hues with the emotions of those around him.

Like when Mari was angry, she spoke in flamingo pink. If she was sad, it was a dull blush color that made Yuuri feel queasy. When she was excited, bubbles of vibrant fuchsia burst from her mouth, rising into the air full of energy.

His dad’s voice had variations of green. Forest green for when he was happy, chartreuse for when he was drunk, mint for when he was focused. His dad’s emotional state was obvious to Yuuri, though, even without the added tell of his voice.

When he realized what he was seeing, he first merely thought that it was beautiful when someone spoke, that the unique nature of the tone could unlock secrets about the person. It took him a long time to realize the hue meant something. The longer he was around someone, the easier it became to associate the color of the voice with the person’s mood.

He had never wondered if anyone else saw them, as it didn't really matter. It was natural to him, normal. His mother’s reaction when he’d hinted at having synesthesia made him think differently.

_His mother is attending to guests, fluttering around the room to refill drinks and pass out food. His father is meeting with the hot springs owner from down the street about a possible business venture. Yuuri doesn’t get why they might need it since it seems to make his mother’s voice swirl with deep purples, the color of a bruise. He’s always known their money fluctuates since he’s sometimes heard his parents discuss it in quiet tones._

_“When you’re sad, your voice looks more purple than normal,” he explains meekly, scuffing his foot on the ground. “I don’t like it when you’re sad, mom.”_

_“Purple? What do you mean purple, Yuuri? How does my voice look purple?”_

_Yuuri watches as threads of electric blue twine themselves around her purple hue, and he knows he has caused her alarm. He realizes in this moment that no one else can see what he sees. His anxiety at the thought of causing worry because of something that didn’t even hurt him convinced him to reconsider the thought of telling her._

_“You don’t see it?”_

_“See what, Yuuri? Sweetheart, are you feeling okay?” Her concerned face begs him to explain, the lines in her face deepening with worry. She presses a hand against his cheek as if he is five and not almost ten, “you don’t feel warm.” Brushing some strands of hair out of his eyes, she presses a kiss to his forehead. “Do you want to lie down?” She asks._

_“I- uh- I’m okay, mom, really. Yo-you just seem sad,” Yuuri stutters out, suddenly full of nervous energy. “I’m sorry. Do you want some help cleaning?”_

_She smiles, and the puff of her cheeks looks softer than normal. “Yes, Yuuri,” she says gently, “that would be lovely. Don’t push yourself though, dear.”_

\-----

Sound-to-color is the main type of synesthesia he is afflicted with, but sometimes other senses will intermingle if he has a strong connection to the word or if he is particularly exhausted from a day of skating.

Some words have distinctive flavors, colors. “Failure” is a putrid yellow, and tastes like stale bread and rotten eggs. “Love” is a soft cream, a gentle pink, and it tastes like sugar cookies. “Competition” is a scalding red, full of anticipation and cinnamon.

Even names are flavored.

“Mom” tastes like pork cutlet bowls and thyme. “Dad” tastes like vanilla ice cream and almonds. “Yurio”, surprisingly, tastes like oranges, fresh mint, and something spicy.

Unsurprisingly, the most complicated and delectable name of all is Victor.

Victor’s name tastes like dark chocolate, like fresh plums and merlot. It sits heavy on Yuuri’s tongue, clouding his senses.

At night, he lets the name roll off his tongue, tasting it. He watches as colors echo in ripples from his mouth and finds himself mesmerized. The ocean blue waves of his own voice will bounce off the walls and pop with colors of deep amethyst and vibrant magentas.

“Victor,” he will whisper, intimate and lingering like a kiss, “Victor, Victor.”

After, he falls asleep feeling fuller than he has ever been.

\-----

Having synesthesia has given him an edge in his skating. He doesn't often consider it so because he’s been this way since he could remember, but his advantage is undeniable.

He will watch for certain hues, for cautious yellows and harsh bronzes, and he’ll know what went wrong. If he over rotates or isn’t controlling his speed, the sounds his skates make along the ice echo back to him in colors that let him know the areas he needs work in. It doesn’t mean he is more skilled, as his track record can attest to. It merely means he has a slight edge to combat the blunt issue of his nerves.

Songs also have their own unique pattern of color; one that he can tune into to and match with his movements. He doesn't have to listen for cues in the music to tell him how to move his body. The colors are his instructions instead.

And when his skates are in harmony with a melody, he feels as enchanting as Victor seems to think he is.

He’ll watch for the pops of different hue in each beat. The brilliant blues, radiant reds, and vibrant yellows explode around him in motifs that he can dance to. His movements will flow with the ripples and ribbons encircling him. His interpretation is often so spot on that he is almost as surprised as Victor is and Celestino was.

Perhaps that is what drew Victor to him.

When Victor finally lets Yurio and Yuuri hear the music for their programs, Yuuri pays attention to the vibrancy of the songs, the change in hue to every beat. It is much easier for the human mind to remember colors, after all.

Agape is a soft pastel pink and snow white, frosty and gentle. It lilts, slopes, falls, kisses the air around them. It reminds Yuuri of February. The song is absolutely beautiful, and will suit Yurio perfectly once he is able.

In contrast, Eros is vibrant splashes of crimson in Yuuri’s eyes. It’s a seductive and passionate vermillion dance of oscillating sound waves. It matches Victor astoundingly well, and Yuuri is both intimidated and enthralled.

In comparison to Victor, Yuuri has the sex appeal of a wet noodle. He has no idea how he’s going to manage to exude the same sensuality. Red is so not his color.

After that, his days are filled with training. Not being allowed to skate at first does not mean he slacks off. He runs through the basics, training his body while considering possible meanings for Eros.

When he accidentally settles on pork cutlet bowls after a week, he discovers something even more embarrassing than blurting out food as a meaning for Eros in front of his idol.

He discovers that compliments from Victor are flavored. Yuuri doesn’t know if this is because it’s Victor, someone he has admired for most of his life, or if there is a different reason. Either way, it’s alarming because Victor will dole out praise vigorously when he feels it is earned.

Compliments from Victor taste like aged whisky, streaming out in golden rivulets. His usual magenta is a rippling shadow beneath, overwhelmed by Victor’s enthusiasm. The steady flow of words make Yuuri feel listless, drunk.

“Beautiful, Yuuri!” Victor will call out from the sidelines, his hands cupped around his mouth. “You look gorgeous out there.”

It makes Yuuri feel dizzy and his vision narrows until he is swimming in the euphoria offered by Victor’s intoxicating voice. “Yuuri, that looks good!” His coach calls, further weakening his knees, “perfect step sequence.”

“Your arms in your spin were looking a little low.”

In contrast, when he is coaching Yuuri, Victor’s words are the color of red wine, deep and urgent. He pushes Yuuri to the brink, saying “again, Yuuri, do it again,” and Yuuri can do nothing but comply.

The combination of words tangle in Yuuri’s awareness, unfurling across his vision. They drive him to continue, pushing him to reach his best, even when he feels like he might fall over from exhaustion. And when it is Yurio practicing with Victor in the rink, Yuuri will remind himself of the sangria that poured from Victor’s mouth, offering encouragement. He will think of the amber flakes encircling him, of the listless whisky on his tongue put there by a Russian’s voice, and move just a bit faster.

He will force his body to its limits, pushing himself to continue, to speed up. He will do anything to make Victor proud.

That is why, when he has the chance to learn how to do a quadruple salchow from Yurio, he takes to it with vigor. He forces himself to get up excruciatingly early and listens to the blindingly sunshine yellow support hiding behind the lime insults.

He begs Yurio to show him as many times as it takes. He spends many mornings on learning the move. He practices once, twice, thrice, over and over until he can shakily stick a landing. Then he pushes himself to practice more. It takes two weeks of effort for him to even think of adding it to his program.

During that time, he misses out on a lot of sleep and he also experiences an array of colors. Yuuri has seen every shade of orange imaginable with hints of bright green, vivid yellow, and fiery red. Yurio is an example of technicolor emotional expression, or teen angst.

The younger boy’s ridiculous tantrums would be hilarious if they didn't occasionally cause Yuuri bodily harm.

Today, Yuuri is attempting to add it seamlessly into his program. So far, he’s fallen every time and can’t seem to stop over-rotating. He’s on his fourth hour of practice on the ice, ten minutes before Victor typically arrives, when Yuuri attempts to convince him to take a break.

“Katsudon, quit already,” Yurio calls from across the rink where he is stretching against the wall. The early morning sun makes his white blonde locks look iridescent. His face is just as gentle in appearance and is only marred by his expression, which is flat and annoyed. “You're too old for this much practice,” the boy continues, his voice a little too anxious orange to disguise his worry beneath the insult. “Go sit down before you hurt yourself.”

“Just one more!” Yuuri replies stubbornly. “I've almost got it.”

He picks up tempo again, moving his body, preparing for the jump and-

misses.

His crash onto the hard ice causes a burst of putrid yellow to begin to overwhelm his vision. He lays dazed for a minute, unable to associate pain with the ice as a kaleidoscope of hideous colors burst in his mind. He’s only broken out of it by a worried violent orange-yellow exploding in the corner of his eye.

“Idiot!” It is with this that Yuuri finally realizes Yurio is the one insulting him and blinding him with bright orange words. “What were you thinking?” Yurio shouts, detracting from the fact that he is gently cradling Yuuri’s head. “So stupid, I told you to quit.”

Yuuri groans, wishing the agonizing yellow would stop swirling in his vision.

“Katsudon? Where did you hit your stupid head?” Yurio says, concerned. His voice is anxiously quivering, and Yuuri wishes it would stop.

“Yuuri! If you don't start talking, I'm going to kick your-”

Yuuri moans, interrupting Yurio. His face scrunches with discomfort, and nausea bubbles up as the colors sickeningly swirl behind his eyes. “Yurio,” he begs, “please stop talking. Your voice is too bright. Why did you have to be so orange?”

“What the hell are you talking about, Katsudon? How hard did you hit that dumb head of yours?” He sounds angrier now, and it makes his voice even harder to take. Yuuri groans, turning away.

Yuuri feels raw, like his nerves are on fire. Every sound is an assault on his senses. His head feels as if it is full of fiberglass. The pain is turning his vision to the color of rotting cheese and he tastes iron on his tongue.

He tries to move, rolling onto his side while bringing a hand up to shift his weight, but Yurio catches his wrist in a death grip and pulling up. “What do you think you’re doing, moron?” The boy hisses, “you aren’t moving until I call Victor!”

Yuuri tries to say he is fine, to deny needing Victor, to jerk his hand back so he can get off the cold ice, but it is then that he notices the tremors. His fingers are trembling, shaking. He freezes, knowing what that means. His vision swims, and he is suddenly hit with the knowledge that he really is a moron since he missed all the signs.

“Yurio,” he says seriously, cutting off the boy’s tirade. “Don’t call an ambulance. D-don’t tell Victor, I’ll be fine. Just five m-minutes, p-please.”

“What? Will you make some damn sense?!”

“F-five minutes. Please, ju-ust f-five, don’t call-”

“Yuuri-” the panicked boy begins, but his voice only explodes into a myriad of color before it bleeds into a brilliant white.

Then Yuuri sees nothing at all.


End file.
